


Melinda

by wheel_pen



Series: Loose Gems [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 22:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3265913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a fictional country where slavery is legal, linguistics scholar Greg House is tempted by a young slave girl. Some brief, unfinished scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.
> 
> Inherent in the idea of slavery are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

            They spent a few quiet moments straightening clothing, making sure the zippers were zipped and the shirts tucked; Lisa even kept a mirror in her desk for quick touch-ups to her make-up. Clever, but then again, he wasn’t exactly the only guest she ever greeted in such a manner. She had the routine down so well, in fact, that he had barely waited in the chair for two minutes, stretching his leg out, before she was looking almost as professional as when he had walked in. Of course when your job was chief whore in the harem, looking “professional” had a slightly different standard than, say, an academic researcher.

            “So your e-mail said something about a girl for me,” he began abruptly, before she could waste his time with opening small talk. “I hope that wasn’t just an optimistic term for yourself.”

            Lisa smiled a little, more at the absurd notion she’d harbored that Greg might have mellowed at all over the years than at anything amusing in his comment. “It wasn’t,” she assured him, with her sweet but poisonous smile. He had always liked that smile. “We got a girl from the markets a few months ago, and we’ve been training her—“

            He was frowning already and he cut her off with irritation. “I’ve seen all the girls you have in the Gardens,” he reminded her dismissively. “I don’t want any of _them_.”

            Lisa took a deep breath as if to calm herself, and she noted his gaze flickering predictably down to the swelling neckline of her low-cut blouse. Greg might live among his dusty books and theoretical debates and the esoteric scholarship of ancient linguistics, but in reality the only difference between him and most of the other men who wandered into the Gardens was that he didn’t bother pretending he _hadn’t_ looked—and that he actually looked back _up_ in order to speak to her. Although those were two big differences.

            “She’s young,” Lisa pointed out patiently. “Too young for the Gardens.”

            He narrowed his crystal blue eyes at her suspiciously. “How young?”

            “Almost fifteen.”

            “Which means fourteen,” he corrected snidely. “G-d, I’m not a pedophile.” Greg started to stand. “If you wanted a f—k against the wall, you should’ve just come to my rooms, at least I wouldn’t have to walk home after.”

            Lisa stood as well, and this time she really _did_ sigh in exasperation. “You wouldn’t get her for three years at least,” she explained quickly, before he could walk out the door. “You put her on reserve, we train her, and when she’s of age, _then_ you get her.”

            “Oh, really, is _that_ how the system works?” Greg asked sarcastically. “I didn’t realize that. How foolish of me.” His tone sharpened. “I want someone _now_ , not in three years.”

            “We can train her to your specifications,” Lisa offered, coming out from behind the desk to meet Greg at her doorway.

            “Thanks, but I’m not that kinky.”

            Lisa had heard differently, but anyway she had her trump card. “We could teach her different languages.” Greg paused in opening the door. “For example, Sanskrit, Old Malay, Ancient Greek...”

            “Really?” he asked slowly.

            Lisa leaned closer, her shark’s-grin out in full force. “Any language you want. She could be a great help to you in your work. Tamil, Hindu, Punjabi, Arabic...”

            “Stop, you’re turning me on.”

            “Would you at least like to see her?”

            His lips twitched the way they did when he had a made a decision but didn’t want to reveal it too quickly. “Fine. I’ll look at her.”

            Lisa allowed herself to be just a little bit smug. “Good. Follow me.”

            They headed out of her office into the section of the Gardens reserved for those who lived and worked in the household. The paths were more winding than in the public areas, the tropical foliage thicker, not bound by the strict accessibility and safety codes required by law in the other zones. He didn’t mind sitting in the Gardens, despite the sometimes oppressive humidity—in fact there was a quiet, shaded bench near a fish pond where he and Wilson ate lunch sometimes—but walking up the packed-earth slopes with thick roots snaking randomly out of their beds could be a b---h.

            As he hoped this girl wouldn’t be. The last thing he needed was a street-wild adolescent talking back to him all the time. He’d gotten enough of that with Cameron. “How do you know she can learn all these languages you’re promising?” Greg asked, pushing some large palm-shaped leaves aside.

            Lisa glanced over her shoulder at him and slowed her pace, she hoped not obviously. “She already speaks several languages and dialects, and she’s picked up proper English almost completely in just the last few months.” She shook her head, dark curls cascading down the back of her jacket. “She spoke nothing but gutter English when she came here.”

            “I don’t want another bit of rough,” Greg warned her as they rounded a corner marked by a garishly-colored spray of flowers. “I don’t want someone I have to beat all the time.” He didn’t feel it necessary to add that he found it difficult to maintain the proper level of discipline in a slave when he wasn’t exactly able-bodied himself anymore.

            “She’s very sweet,” Lisa assured him. “Not _too_ sweet,” she corrected, before he could object. “Just sweet enough. And we’ll be working with her for three years anyway. She’ll be tamed by the time you get her.”

            “I don’t want one of those angsty girls who whimpers every time I glare at her, either,” Greg added. He hoped they were going to actually come across this girl one of these days. He contemplated pulling his pain pills out of his jacket pocket and popping one, but then decided he would try to put it off a little longer. No use letting Lisa think she had tired him out or anything.

            “Believe me,” she told him, “I know better than to give you a girl like _that_. She’d be in tears all the time.” Greg gave her the expected nominal glare. “She’s had some mistreatment on the streets, of course, but she seems to be relatively well-adjusted.”

            He heard laughter and talking around the next corner, and finally Lisa paused in a clearing where several paths came together. There was a wading pool just beyond a clump of banana trees where a handful of teenagers were frolicking. Greg immediately started to think about how he hated frolicking, but then one of the girls caught his eye and his usual logical, rational thought deserted him. It wasn’t that he lusted after her; she was obviously too young to be allowed into any kind of well-formed fantasy of _that_ sort. But she stood out among the other rough-featured, gangly youths like—a dove in a flock of wild turkeys. Pale, creamy skin, alien-huge eyes, long golden-brown hair curling damply down the back of her sundress, slender legs disappearing under the blue-green water—

            Lisa let him stare for a moment, 95% certain he was staring at the right girl. She was a little insulted that he wouldn’t realize she knew exactly what he liked in a girl by now, but then again, if he’d afforded her that respect, he wouldn’t be the Greg she knew. “Melinda!” she called.

            The girl came scampering over. Greg smoothly backed up a step and his posture became tense; with a normal person that would have meant they were displeased, but Lisa knew then he had indeed been admiring the same girl she had in mind for him. “This is Melinda,” she introduced unnecessarily. The girl smiled hesitantly, eyes flicking between Lisa and the forbidding stranger.

            “Turn around,” he told her shortly, and she twirled slowly, with bemusement. It was a pointless command, he already knew what he would do, but he felt he had to say _something_. He turned back to Lisa, studiously ignoring the girl. “Three years is a long time. How do I know she’ll be pretty?”

            Melinda’s eyebrows went up, and Lisa rolled her eyes. “Melinda will be pretty in three years,” the older woman answered him, her tone slightly patronizing, “because she is already pretty _now_.”

            Of course she should have known that would only invite another comment. “If all you want are eyes and legs, sure,” Greg responded off-hand, turning away from the teenager. “Do I get my money back if she’s outright ugly in three years?”

            Lisa smiled reassuringly at Melinda, who was frowning now, and followed Greg as he started to limp away down the path they’d approached on. “You’re going away to the university for three years,” Lisa pointed out matter-of-factly. “You’ll have access to a whole new group of girls there, to keep you entertained. And when you come back, she will understand a _reasonable_ number of useful languages, she will be beautiful, and she will be well-versed in the harem arts.”

            He smirked a little, having always found that phrase slightly amusing, then thought of something else and sobered. “Is she a virgin?” he asked, trying to make the question casual.

            Lisa looked a little taken aback. “Does she have to be?” She doubted it, after a life on the streets.

            He shrugged. “If I’m paying for her, she’s exclusive to _me_ ,” Greg told her, “and that includes avoiding the traditional bed-hopping of the harem.” He made sure to say the last part with as much disdain as possible.

            “ _If_ you’re paying for her,” Lisa allowed, sensing a deal was about to be made, “we can restrict her sexual contact to that which is necessary for training.” She paused, and he didn’t say anything. “Unless you don’t want her trained in that manner at all...”

            For a moment she actually thought he was going to say yes. “Please, by all means, teach her your harem arts,” Greg assured her sardonically as they approached the doors to the main hallway exiting the Gardens. “I’ll be much too busy abusing her linguistic skills to do it myself.”

            Lisa stopped at the doorway as he went through. “You’ll take her then?”

            “Yes, I’ll take her,” he agreed, his tone indicating it should have been obvious to anyone of moderate intelligence. He kept walking.

            “I’ll send you the paperwork,” Lisa called after him, triumphant.

            “Better hurry,” he shot back, without turning around. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

            Of course he was. With a final glare at his back, Lisa headed quickly back to her office. Sometimes she wondered why she did the man any favors at all.

 

*****

            He didn’t want to hear from the girl, and he didn’t want to see pictures of her. But if Lisa was ever late with her weekly e-mail to him saying that Melinda was “making good progress,” a caustic reminder sat seething in her inbox within hours. He didn’t seem to care much about her bedroom skills, which was certainly unusual for the patron of a slave but perhaps not so unusual for a decidedly unusual person like Greg. Lisa knew he was keeping tabs on her medical records through Wilson, because the chief of the Wellness Center would sigh and call the girl in for physicals at random times, per her owner’s instructions.

            Of course Greg was keenly interested in what languages she was learning; he had started out insisting that twelve hours a day was a reasonable amount of time for the teenager to spend in linguistic study, but Lisa had managed, after great debate and persuasion, to pare it back to eight, with only four on the weekends. The other young slaves being taught in the harem found it endlessly amusing that Melinda was buried in dusty old books all day, since most of _their_ owners barely cared if they could read and write as long as they were charming, good-looking, and phenomenal in bed (lessons which also took up hours of every day, but tended to be far more interesting to the students).

            Other owners sent their young slaves trinkets, jewelry, and other much-prized gifts; Greg’s “gifts” were passages of ancient texts for the girl to translate, inevitably the most difficult and obscure sections, and his criticisms of her work were, also inevitably, scathing and merciless. If Lisa thought she’d been clever to appoint the prickly Eric to be Melinda’s chief tutor, hoping to get the girl acclimated to dealing with a difficult personality, well, some days she was left wondering if there was _any_ way to prepare someone for life with Greg. Other days, she was glad that the one person around who _did_ have experience living with him had so far refrained from any advice or comments about him to the girl, because Lisa didn’t want Melinda to be petrified for the next three years over a story Cameron had told her.

            The girl seemed to take everything reasonably well, though, with little more than a frown or some sass to indicate her displeasure with something. Equanimity was certainly a refreshing change from the melodrama that tended to suffuse the harem, and adolescents in general, but sometimes Lisa worried about it—would Greg find calmness satisfying or boring? Well, he would _say_ he found it boring, but then again Dr. Wilson was a very calm person and he was probably Greg’s best friend. Not to mention the fact that the last time Greg had gotten a girl who displayed as much passion and intensity as he did, they had very nearly combusted together. Cameron was much more mellow now, a favorite in the Gardens, and she had even told Lisa that after dealing with Greg almost all of her customers were a breeze; but Lisa wouldn’t cite an internship with the infamous scholar as an approved prerequisite for the Garden harem. She really hoped Melinda could get along with him, somehow, without being miserable.

 

*****

            His return was unannounced, of course, at least to her; in fact she’d just sent off her weekly report to him when there was a loud banging on the door to her office, courtesy of a metal-topped cane. She supposed she should just be glad he knocked at all. Fifteen minutes later, after their traditional greeting and a fresh spate of rude comments from Greg, they were headed to the lounge in the Quarters where Melinda was, Lisa sincerely hoped, buried in her studies and not, say, daring to take a bathroom or meal break.

            “I still get my money back if she’s turned ugly, right?” he asked as they headed down the narrow beige hallway.

            “If you’d let me send you pictures of her,” Lisa chided, feeling just a little bit nervy with anticipation of the meeting, “you’d _know_ what she looked like already.”

            “Oh, but then I wouldn’t have the fun of upbraiding you in person upon seeing her for the first time in three years,” Greg countered, staring down an approaching slave until the young man leaned against the wall and let them pass.

            The Quarters were not of course nearly as luxurious as the main house or even the public zones, with flickering fluorescent lighting, loud ventilation, and close, low-ceiling rooms; but most people agreed that they were better than living on the streets, and within their confines a slave had a reasonable amount of autonomy. Except during a rare visit from a member of the household, which tended to be uncomfortable for everyone involved. Greg never let that kind of thing bother him, though.

            Greg slowed as they approached the door to the lounge, and Lisa slowed with him, confused until she saw through the glass that Melinda was indeed at her appointed task, kneeling in her chair as she poured over four different books spread out on the large wooden table. She’d slipped her shoes off, her bare feet hanging off the back of the chair seat, her long legs going up and up until they finally disappeared under the flowing skirt of her red-and-white dress. Lisa bit her lip to hide her smirk as she saw Greg’s eyes tracing them, up and down and back up again; he was definitely a leg man, no matter what jokes he might make about her own generous cup size.

            A young woman pushed open the door of the lounge and hurried past down the hall, casting a nervous glance at Greg, and Lisa caught the door before it could close and poked his arm to usher him in. They approached the table slowly, Greg studying the girl’s every move as if she were a new kind of creature he might have to track someday, until finally Eric glanced up from his own reading and caught sight of them. He nudged Melinda, then nodded towards Lisa and their visitor, and the girl turned expectantly, a smile already curving upwards on her delicate face. Chase liked to write poems in which Melinda was compared to angels, to porcelain carvings, to lilies fresh from the fields—as if Chase had ever _seen_ lilies fresh from the fields—but at the moment Lisa thought the most apt description for the girl was the one she saw in Greg’s own eyes. She wouldn’t be presumptuous, or hopeful, enough to say that he had lost his heart; but she definitely didn’t think he’d be complaining.

            “D—n,” Greg commented slowly, and Lisa allowed herself a proud smile—until he continued tartly, “Still all eyes and legs. Where’s my refund?”

            “Greg!” she snapped, thoroughly exasperated.

            “Kidding,” he tossed off, without taking his eyes off the girl. “I guess she _looks_ alright.” He drifted a bit closer. “ _Ejat divstra malakiloh, seevar munosh kunar_.”

            Melinda’s smile broadened even as Lisa gave Greg a confused look. “ _Evar manish doorgo vanh_ ,” she shot back, sweetly, and Lisa didn’t know if it was the incomprehensible words or her voice—always a little throatier than people expected—that made Greg drop a little more abruptly into the chair than he had likely planned.

            “Your pronunciation is terrible,” Greg informed her shortly, and instead of getting indignant Melinda smiled.

            “My reading and writing are better,” she assured him, clearly not too worried about his disapproval.

            “Not according to the last translation you sent me,” he countered. “A five-year-old with a picture dictionary could’ve done better.”

            “Well,” Melinda decided, smoothly leaning forward over the book between them, “you’ll just have to give me more instruction.”

            “Okay,” Greg said suddenly, not necessarily in direct response to Melinda’s innuendo, as he stood up. “Come on.” He grabbed her slender hand and pulled her off her chair. “Let’s go for a walk. You don’t mind, do you?” he asked facetiously of Cuddy. “I like to stretch my legs, you know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg contemplates the purchase of two additional slaves, which would take a little pressure off Melinda. But he’s not sure how she’ll react to them.

            It wasn’t that he didn’t want them. No, no, it wasn’t that at all. And d—n Zada, she could see that, just from the way he looked at them. Well, who _wouldn’t_ want them? Two nubile young girls—fresh-faced, but with some experience, and apparently _very_ good friends—a blond and a brunette, one buxom and lively, the other exotic and mysterious, batting their eyes at him in their alluring way—it was certainly nothing to be _ashamed_ of, wanting them. The boy was gazing at him hopefully, too, although _that_ kind of thing had no interest for him—and he wanted to go with Zada anyway, so Greg presumed the hopefulness was just because the lad knew the older man was the key to him ending up in this household.

            “Come on, Uncle Greg,” Zada prompted, in the wheedling manner she’d had perfected since she was ten years old. “Aren’t they pretty? And I _know_ you’ve been looking for someone new...”

            He finally tore his gaze away from the girls. “Just _one_ someone,” he reminded his niece tartly, but he was already going through it in his mind. “Not two.” He had enough room, there were three extra bedrooms in the suite...

            “Oh, but look at them!” she insisted. Oh, he was. The brunette bit her lip and lowered her head a bit, looking up at him with her almond-shaped eyes. The blond stuck her chest out a little more, showing off the cleavage outlined by her tight red shirt. G-d, he was a sucker for the simplest things, really. Wilson would be laughing his a-s off if he could see his oh-so-cool friend right now. “And they’re really a bargain, just one-fifty for both.”

            “Seventy-five each? For _them_?” he protested. “I doubt they’re worth that.” Okay, actually that _was_ a great bargain—he could easily pay one-fifty for just _one_ of them at one of the upscale markets. But money wasn’t the problem anyway.

            “Uncle Greg!” Zada chastised, hands on her hips. “Now you’re just being difficult.” She pouted, and he almost said ‘yes’ right then. He _was_ a sucker, he really was. “You _know_ they come as a set—Daddy said I can’t have _him_ unless someone takes _them_ , too. Now, are you going to take them or not?”

            “Why don’t _you_ take them?” Greg suggested cheekily to his niece. Really, he was still trying to envision the reaction of a certain _someone_ to finding two new people in the suite this evening. It was... ugly. In a quiet, cold sort of way.

            “Buying _them_ to do my hair and straighten my clothes?” Zada sniffed. “It would be a _clear_ waste of their talents, Uncle Greg.”

            “Maybe Alex would like to expand his range,” he suggested, nodding at the slave who leaned nonchalantly against the wall at the back of the room. The young man smirked a bit but didn’t stop fixing the prospective slave boy with a predatory gaze—and Greg wasn’t envisioning the ‘hunt and kill’ kind of predator, either. Something told him that if Zada _did_ get her hands on the dark-haired boy, he’d get _way_ more activity than he had expected.

            He could tell that his niece was getting seriously exasperated with him now. “If you aren’t going to take them, at least _tell_ me, so I can talk to _other_ people,” she insisted.

            “Your father won’t just buy them and put them in the Garden?” Greg asked, but he knew, obviously, that his brother-in-law must have already quashed that idea, because it was the first anyone would have come up with.

            Zada rolled her eyes. “He says there’s enough slaves in the Garden,” she informed her uncle crisply, conveying the tone her father had no doubt used when explaining it to _her_. “He says they sit around idle too much already.”

            “Maybe people are just bored with them,” Greg suggested facetiously. Would she be in the suite this time of day, or maybe the pool? “Maybe some fresh faces would stimulate their interest.”

            “You wanna suggest that to him?” the young woman offered, clearly of the opinion such a scheme wouldn’t work.

            “No,” he decided slowly. He was formulating a course of action and started to turn away.

            “You really don’t want them?!” Zada called after him, disbelief obvious.

            “Hold them for me,” Greg told her, limping out of the room. “I have to talk to my financial adviser first.” He heard his niece’s exasperated sigh behind him but ignored it. There was someone he needed to find, and quickly, before the slave merchant decided his wares weren’t wanted and shipped them off to another compound.

            He checked the suite thoroughly, looked through the private gardens, glanced in at the swimming pool, then headed to the Medical Center, irritation growing. He swore he was going to make that stupid girl wear her pager tied around her neck—what was the point of _having_ it if she left it in her room all the time?

            Wilson was standing over a patient with a bandaged ankle when Greg stepped into his personal space, demanding attention. “Um, what?” the startled doctor asked, backing up a bit and looking his friend over as if suspicious of injury.

            “Have you seen Melinda?”

            Wilson rolled his eyes and moved away from the patient’s bed to a desk, file in hand. “Greg, the poor girl’s exhausted,” he reminded his friend, none too gently. “Could you let her have a _few_ days’ rest, at least? If you keep pushing her she’ll be back here again—“

            “Yeah, I know, I know,” Greg interrupted impatiently. “Skip the lecture. I’m trying to take your advice.” Wilson’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Have you seen her?”

            “Um... I think she was going to the library,” he finally answered, thinking back.

            “Great.” The reply was, unsurprisingly, sarcastic, since the library was a very large hunting ground. He headed for the door without another word.

            “Wait a minute!” Wilson started to follow him. “What advice? Greg!” But he was off down the hall, limping quickly. He was getting very good at ignoring people yelling after him today.

            The library was a sprawling place, with members of the barely-washed public infesting it like so many insects, creating a buzz of activity very much like that of a hive. Greg usually never went in there during normal business hours, instead preferring the blissful quiet emptiness of the early morning or late night. Or he sent Melinda to fetch things for him. Now what had been on the latest list he’d given her? Kaniwythe, also the Greek poets—no, that was two weeks ago, he was past that part of the translation now. He needed something of the Malayans, Suchet or Mahathir or something like that. Greg stared up at the balconies of all the floors in the library tower—of course the Malay section was on the fourth floor. There was an elevator, certainly, which he was going to use, even though it _smelled_ like the barely-washed public and might in fact contain a few of them, but he wasn’t going to be happy.

            Finally, after criss-crossing the fourth floor twice, he found her, tucked into a corner, behind a stack of books, poring over them in pursuit of the information he wanted. He was too tired to be angry with her though, even if his leg hurt enough to warrant popping a pain pill as he dropped into a chair beside her. She glanced up in surprise, big blue eyes narrowing with concern. “Something wrong?” She knew he never came into the library at this time of day purely by choice.

            He dropped her pager loudly on the wooden table. “You forgot this,” he told her sharply.

            She quirked an eyebrow. “Sorry.” She clipped it to the waist of her jeans and waited expectantly for whatever else he was having a problem with.

            Well. Now that he was facing her, he wasn’t sure exactly what to say. He’d been too busy looking for her to think about that kind of thing. He twisted his cane against the garish carpet under the table, staring at his hands gripping the silver-covered handle. How to phrase this... It wasn’t as if he were asking her permission, of course. He wouldn’t do that. She couldn’t _expect_ that. She was a slave after all, just as they would be. But, in the interests of keeping peace in his household—because if he had to deal with a bunch of catfights every day, he’d go crazy—he just wanted to see how she felt about the idea. Before he’d forked over the money for the new girls.

            She was really looking kind of concerned now, no doubt wondering what kind of awful news he could possibly have to tell her, so he tried to be as succinct as possible. “Zada has two slaves she wants me to buy,” he began quickly, finding the broken spines of the books on the nearby shelves fascinating to look at. “It’s some complicated story about how they go with this boy she wants and... anyway. She’s waiting for me to decide.”

            He finally glanced up at her and found a confused expression on her face. “Like... bedslaves?” she asked, unsure what he was getting at.

            “Yes, exactly like that,” Greg responded with some impatience. “Two girls, about your age. They go together, I guess.”

            She still didn’t seem to understand why he was mentioning it to her, and to be honest he didn’t either, really, so he hoped she wouldn’t force him to clarify. “So... you haven’t bought them yet?”

            “No, not yet.”

            “Are they... pretty?”

            He sighed and leaned his head on his hands. “G-d, yes, they’re gorgeous,” he admitted.

            She was smiling when he looked back up. “You should get them, then,” Melinda told him.

            “I should, huh?” He spun his cane from hand to hand, watching it closely. “You wouldn’t...” Mind? Be upset? “...throw a fit?”

            She laughed a little bit, always a throatier sound than he expected from looking at her. “Do I throw fits?”

            “You might,” he countered slowly, “if you came home and found two new girls...”

            “In your bed?” she teased.

            “In the suite,” he finished, meeting her gaze.

            She glanced away, thinking for a moment. “Would I have to... _do_ anything with them?” Melinda finally asked, hesitantly.

            “What, like braid their hair and paint their nails?” he shot back, confused.

            “No!” Her blush explained better what she was getting at. “I _mean_ , _do_ anything with them.”

            “Oh.” Honestly, he hadn’t thought about that. With these specific two girls, that is. “You don’t want to?” She shook her head quickly, eyes on the tabletop. He sighed. G‑d, the agony of sacrifice... “I guess not. If you don’t want to.”

            She looked up at him then, smiling brightly. “Okay, then. I won’t throw a fit, I guess.”

            “Good.” He was already pulling out his cell phone. “Zada? My financial adviser put me in the clear. Go ahead and get them.” He held the phone away from his head as excited squealing erupted on the other end, then snapped it shut. He pushed himself out of the uncomfortable wooden chair. “You making any progress?” he asked, indicating the pile of books on the table.

            “Not much,” Melinda sighed. He noted the comments scribbled into her notebook and the mess of flags sticking out of several of the books.

            “Well, hurry it up,” he advised her rudely. He didn’t want her to think that just because he mentioned buying new slaves to her before actually doing it, that that _meant_ anything. “I want to finish this part by the end of the week.”

            “I’ll keep going,” she assured him.

            “Good.” Reluctantly he turned to go. “I have some new slaves to settle in, you know,” he added obnoxiously.

            She smirked a little. “I’m sure that will keep you occupied for a while.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively, then finally limped back towards the elevator, pulling out his cell phone again. New slaves always meant a ton of paperwork, before you got to do _anything_ with them, unfortunately.

 

********

 

            The room was still and silent when he opened his eyes, the darkness mitigated only by the faint glow from the nightlight a certain _someone_ had insisted upon installing in the bathroom. For an instant, just an instant, he was confused, because the lump in the bed beside him was unfamiliar—unfamiliar sounds, unfamiliar smell, unfamiliar shape. Then he remembered, remembered vividly, and he smiled a little in the darkness. When he would tell Wilson about his evening at their next meal, his smile would be unbearably smug. But for now it was merely… satisfied. Except for one thing.

            Moving as little as he possibly could, he reached out into the darkness and poked the shoulder nearest him. There was a mumble and a moan, so he prodded again, more insistently. "Come on, wake up," he said, in a voice that didn't try to be quiet.

            The dark-haired girl rolled over awkwardly and faced him. Years of training told her to smile and placate him instead of whining that she was tired. "Can't sleep?" she asked, trailing a slightly uncoordinated hand down his bare chest.

            He grabbed her wrist. "Not with _you_ in the bed," he replied shortly. "Go on. Go back to your own room."

            She blinked, confused, but years of training had also taught her to get out while the getting was good. She sat up, trying to slip out from under the sheet without jostling the bed too much. He knew the effort wasn't on his behalf but he appreciated its existence anyway—he could feel the dull throb starting in his leg already and he was just hoping he was alone before it turned into a stabbing pain, which it inevitably would before the pain pill he was about to reach for could take effect.

            She was pulling on her underwear, or someone's, from the floor, for what purpose he didn't understand. Her room was only just down the hall. "Would you get out already?" he snapped peevishly. The bottle of painkillers sat behind him on the nightstand, taunting him. "Take her with you." The blond apparently had an impressive capacity for sleeping through commotion, as the brunette had to give her partner a firm shake to get her up and moving. They were at the doorway when he called after them, "Send Melinda in here."

            As soon as the two teenagers had left the room, naked backs to him, he rolled onto his own naked back, biting his lip against the shooting pain in his leg, and grabbed the bottle of pills. He popped the top off, not caring at the moment where it landed, and dumped out a large white tablet. He was tempted to take two but really couldn't justify it, even in his own easily persuaded mind. He popped the pill and swallowed it dry, the result of _his_ long years of training.

            "Maybe you're getting too old for all this," a soft voice suggested from the doorway, greatly amused. Melinda leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her chest, and his eyes traveled up and down the long bare legs on display below her otherwise absurdly modest nightgown. He could _never_ get too old, he decided.

            "You sneer," he observed, as she approached the bed, "but 'all this' let you sleep tonight."

            "Right, because I'm sound asleep right now," Melinda commented, crawling onto the mattress beneath the sheet.

            "You can go back to sleep," Greg assured her, settling back down himself as the slightly light-headed feeling brought on by the painkiller soothed him. "You've got until, oh, sunrise or so."

            "Glad those _two_ energetic teenage girls managed to take the edge off for a few hours," Melinda murmured, curling up just a few inches away from him.

            "Wilson will be thrilled," Greg muttered in reply, just before he drifted off to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg is gearing up to do something stupid and unnecessary, again. Melinda might be the only one who can talk him out of it.

            “Come on, Greg, don’t do this,” Wilson pleaded, trailing his friend down the hallway.

            “And why shouldn’t I?” the older man shot back, limping along purposefully. The question was clearly not one whose answer interested him.

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Lisa began sarcastically, jogging along behind Wilson. “Maybe because it’s completely rude, unnecessary, and cruel?”

            “Well, she may be a whore, but at least she’s got a heart of gold,” Greg commented over his shoulder, still proceeding forward.

            Wilson sighed and looked back at Lisa’s peeved expression, observing, “Obviously he doesn’t have a problem with rude, unnecessary, and cruel.”

            “And more power to me for it,” Greg told them with satisfaction.

            “How about, because it’s going to cause a lot of trouble for _you_ , personally?” Wilson suggested, seriously contemplating just tripping the older man and locking him in a closet somewhere until his temper blew over.

            “Please,” Greg responded caustically, “I _think_ I can handle it.”

            “Is there any chance at all, even a miniscule one, that afterwards you might feel _bad_ and wish you hadn’t done it?” Lisa tried, clearly not expecting to get the answer she wanted.

            “None at all,” Greg assured her.

            “Lisa’s right,” Wilson seconded, a desperate tone coming into his voice. He glanced around wildly as if looking for inspiration and saw where he had followed his exasperating friend to. “Look, here’s your room right here.” Wilson paused by the door; Greg kept going. “You should stop and think about this first. For a while. A long while.”

            “Wow, brilliant persuasive debating,” Greg told him acidly. “You came really close to convincing me with that one.”

            “Greg!” Wilson went jogging after his friend just as the door to Greg’s suite opened and Melinda poked her head out in confusion.

            “What’s going on?” she asked, and Lisa stopped to fill her in succinctly. Rolling her eyes, Melinda left the rooms and caught up with the two men farther down the hallway.

            “Greg—“ she began, her tone sensible.

            “Oh, are you going to weigh in on this, too?” he spat, brushing past her. “Go write your position paper in Ancient Greek, maybe I’ll read it then.”

            “Greg, stop.” Melinda stepped right in front of him, causing the older man to come up short and wobble slightly on his bad leg. “This is the wrong thing to do, and you know it.”

            Greg’s eyes narrowed dangerously at the teenager. “Get out of my way,” he ordered coldly. She didn’t move. “I’m twice your size,” he reminded her, voice almost a growl. “You wanna end up on your a-s on the floor?” Melinda didn’t blink, just kept gazing at him with those steady blue eyes. Behind Greg’s back Wilson and Lisa exchanged nervous glances. “Get. Out. Of. My. Way,” he repeated furiously, the cane starting to come off the floor threateningly. Wilson had an unpleasant flash of treating Melinda in the Wellness Center for a cane-induced concussion and wondering if his friend would ever forgive himself for inflicting it.

            “No.” The word was said quietly, without any kind of indignant defiance or false bravado, as if it were merely a statement of fact. Two pairs of vibrant sapphire eyes locked, tried to stare each other down, and Wilson honestly didn’t know what could possibly end the standoff, aside from them all being winked out of existence at the end of the world.

            “It’s wrong, and you know it,” Melinda repeated suddenly, and Wilson flinched for her, thinking she’d made a tactical error in breaking the war of silence that had glued them in place in the middle of the hallway.

            “What I _know_ ,” Greg ground out fiercely, grabbing Melinda’s arm with a swift movement and turning back towards his room, “is that _you_ need a reminder of who’s in charge!” Shoving past Wilson and Lisa, Greg pushed Melinda through the partially open door and slammed it behind them.

            For a moment Wilson and Lisa just stood there blinking, the echo of the slammed door subsiding around them, then turned towards each simultaneously. Wilson opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, uncertain of what he was actually going to say. Lisa wore a similar expression on her face, slightly more noticeable because of her brilliant red lipstick, and kept looking around the hallway as if afraid she had hallucinated the whole scene. In all the years either of them had known Greg, they had never seen him lose a battle of wills with anybody.

            A crash came suddenly from behind Greg’s door and they both jumped, then took the awkward few steps up to the threshold before pausing, uncertain of what to do. “He wouldn’t—“ Wilson began, hand hovering between rapping on the wooden surface and trying the doorknob.

            “I don’t—“ was Lisa’s equally ambiguous reply, followed by a helpless shake of her dark curls.

            He wouldn’t hurt Melinda, he couldn’t, Wilson hoped desperately, finally knocking on the door somewhat timidly. Sure, Cameron had taken her knocks from him, but that was what she was into at the time, but Melinda—“Greg? Greg!”

            The door opened so suddenly under his fist that he almost knocked the face of the dark-eyed girl who appeared behind it. Anna and Zoe, eyes wide and expressions frightened, were nudged forcefully out into the hallway, nearly on top of Wilson and Lisa. “Can you look after them for a while?” Melinda asked in a low tone, glancing over her shoulder. “Maybe just overnight?”

            “Um—of course,” Lisa stammered, pulling the two girls slightly aside.

            “Melinda, what about—“ Wilson began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head and a rueful smile.

            “Don’t worry about me,” she assured him. “I can handle him.” There was another crash from the back of the apartment, followed by vicious swearing in several ancient languages, and Melinda gave them all a final look of resolve before shutting the door firmly and clicking the lock in place.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg takes a vacation in Italy.

            George felt mildly apprehensive standing on the doorstep, mostly because the housekeeper who looked after this villa had seemed to take an instant dislike to him the first time he had returned one of the estate's dogs. Maybe she thought he was somehow responsible for them getting out all the time? He wasn't certain, as his knowledge of Italian was still somewhat limited. He would've sent Mario over with the dog this time, but his assistant was currently buried in the kitchen cooking up what promised to be a fantastic supper, so George definitely didn't want to disturb him. Chicken al forno by Mario was definitely worth a little haranguing in a language he didn't understand anyway.

            The miniature cocker spaniel whined a little in his arms as he reached out and banged the heavy brass knocker again. The housekeeper was usually quite prompt. Perhaps he had interrupted her at some involved task, which she would no doubt add to his list of—

            Breasts. Yeah. Staring at him, full and slightly quivery and all natural, all blissfully naked. George yanked his eyes upwards as quickly as he could, feeling slightly embarrassed, but the face situated above the lovely bare breasts smiled cheerfully. The fact that the owner of the breasts was disturbingly young—a teenager or only slightly older—prompted George to give himself another mental kick. This was _definitely_ not the housekeeper he'd been expecting.

            "Um, your dog—" he began articulately, only to have the girl break into an even larger grin and squeal, "Caramel!" before taking the animal into her arms. The dog nestled its silky fur against her naked skin and George tried to think about what a great story this was going to make later.

            "Caramel, you naughty doggie!" the girl chastised in a completely unchastising tone. She looked back up at George with her sparkly blue eyes. "The housekeeper warned us that they manage to get out sometimes. I'm so glad you found her!" The girl started to turn away but left the door open, and George had little choice but to note that she appeared to be wearing nothing more than a pair of low-cut bikini bottoms in a dark color that contrasted well with her pale skin, highlighting the curve of her hips. "Come on in, please," she insisted, setting the dog down in the foyer.

            Shaking his head, George followed her, shutting the door behind him. "I'm, uh, I'm from next door," he said aloud, not sure where she had disappeared to until he heard a noise and ended up in the kitchen, where she was pulling bottles of water from the refrigerator.

            "So glad to meet you," she said sunnily, not at all self-conscious about her lack of clothing. It _was_ Europe, after all. "I was just getting some drinks," she continued, surveying the bottles on the counter. "Come and join us by the pool. Ooh, that's cold. Could you grab some of those for me?"

            "Sure," George replied dutifully, filling his arms with sweating water bottles. At least he had, you know, clothing for them to rest against, instead of just bare skin.

            "I brought a surprise!" the girl announced as she exited the house onto the private terrace in back.

            "Did I _ask_ for a surprise?" came a peevish voice. "What's so difficult about just water?" The voice belonged to an older man stretched out in a lawn chair under an umbrella, and he narrowed his eyes at George in irritation upon spotting him. "What did I tell you about letting people into the house?" he snapped at the girl, snatching a bottle of water from her outstretched hand.

            "Oh, he's from next door," she explained airily, as if that made everything alright. "He brought Caramel back!"

            "Who's Caramel?" the man asked. The girl was distributing water to two other young women on the terrace, one in the swimming pool and one in the hot tub. George guessed neither of them was wearing any more clothing than she was, though the brunette in the hot tub at least looked slightly nonplussed to see him and made sure she stayed in the water up to her neck.

            "One of the dogs!" the blond replied, shaking her head and descending back into the pool. "The one that was missing. The caramel-colored one."

            "Great," the man replied sarcastically. He had barely glanced at George since his initial inspection, preferring instead the rather thick book on his lap. George couldn't imagine that his own attention would be claimed by a book if _he_ were surrounded by three beautiful young topless women, but then again he also wouldn't be sitting out under the blazing Italian sun in a button-up shirt and tailored trousers, either. "Next time you find one of those mongrels, just let it out on a busy street." The girls made nominal noises of protest but didn't seem to take the suggestion seriously.

            George stood on the terrace for a few more awkward seconds, then announced, "Well, I should really be going—"

            "Oh, sit down," the man replied with a sigh. "Have a drink. Didn't even know next door was occupied."

            There was another lawn chair under the umbrella and George situated himself on the edge of it, not wanting to look like he planned to stay a long time. His host certainly didn't seem too keen on it and continued perusing the book. The lack of conversation certainly didn't bother George; he was content to sip his water for a few minutes and watch the two girls in the pool frolic. Boy, were they good at frolicking.

            "The caramel-colored dog," the man announced suddenly, apropos of nothing, "is named Caramel." The girls appeared to be ignoring him, or they knew their attention was not required, so George presumed the comment was meant for him. "The honey-colored dog is named Honey." He indicated the cluster of miniature cocker spaniels cavorting in the shade. "And the chocolate-brown dog is named…?" He paused expectantly. "Go on," he insisted dryly. "Guess."

            "Um… Chocolate?" George tried.

            The man shook his head in disbelief. "One of the most beautiful languages in the world, but not an ounce of creativity. It's sad. Melinda, get out of there before you boil."

            George paused with his mouth open before he realized the man had switched subjects. The girl in the hot tub drifted up to the edge, resting her slender arms on the surrounding tile, and asked nervously, "Um, could you throw me a towel?"

            "It's ninety degrees out here," the man shot back. "You think you're going to get pneumonia?"

            George, however, was not oblivious to her discomfort at his presence, and feeling slightly responsible, he took it upon himself to stand and hand her a colorful towel from the pile beside the lawn chair. She gave him a shy smile and proceeded to drape the towel over her bare top before exiting the hot tub. As George turned back to resume his seat he thought he noticed the man glaring at him, just for a moment.

            Never let it be said that George didn't _try_ to be neighborly. "So, do you speak Italian?" he asked the nameless man, as the girl formerly of the hot tub sat down on the edge of the man's chair, still toweled.


End file.
